


parting is such sweet sorrow

by WhiteJackal



Category: Arthurian Mythology, Le Morte d'Arthur - Thomas Malory
Genre: F/M, Queen Guinevere, all the affair angst, all the post arthur dying angst, arthurian legends, sir lancelot - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-09-30 21:19:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10172432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteJackal/pseuds/WhiteJackal
Summary: even perfect summers must end.OR, the crumbling of camelot's queen and her noble knight.





	

**Author's Note:**

> "through this man and me hath all this war been wrought, and the death of the most noblest knights of the world; for through our love that we have loved together is my most noble lord slain..." 
> 
> set during lancelot and guinevere's final farewell in sir thomas malory's "le mort d'arthur"

She had only been in Almesbury for a few days when Lancelot arrived. From her window, Guinevere saw him riding towards the abbey, tall and strong even from such a distance. She took a deep breath, her fingers clutching the window sill tightly. She wanted to turn from him and run to him all at once.

“Just like always,” she whispered.

She never intended to love Lancelot. She _fully_ intended to be the dutiful queen of Camelot when she wed Arthur. She did not expect to love her husband—she did not much care for the idea of love at all, not like her sisters or the other ladies at court—but she did expect to live a long life of respectful dignity, safe and secure with her older husband until his death. Then she would live quite comfortably as the widowed queen of a beloved king. Such was her plan.

Lancelot was never part of that plan.

But yet she loved him. She loved his bravery and boldness, even when it drove him to brash hastiness. She loved his passion and zeal, even when it manifested in his foolish sentimentality. She loved his devotion to adventure and mighty deeds, even when they took him away from her. She loved him even when she hated him, and she wanted him even when everything inside begged her to let him go. To rid her life of Lancelot would be to rid herself of the fiery passion and desire that had consumed so many years of her life.

The fire that had consumed everything.

One of Guinevere’s ladies entered the queen’s chamber. “My queen,” the girl whispered, “Sir Lancelot… he’s—”

“He’s here,” Guinevere said. She stood from her seat, smoothing her dark dress as she turned to her lady.

The girl nodded. “Yes, my queen. He wishes to see you.”

Once those words would have filled Guinevere with such a thrill. Her heart would lift, and she would smile incessantly until he took her into his arms. But there was no smile on her lips now, and there was no thrill in her heart. Lancelot’s and her fire, that driving force that propelled them and everyone they loved towards destruction, had burned its course now. It had taken its toll, stripping everything and everyone of all that was good and glorious in their golden world; even she who lit the flame had not escaped unscathed.

 _This must end_ , she determined. _I will douse this fire, though it be too late to do much good for anyone. I will make him hate me if I must._

Guinevere nodded to her lady. “I will see him.”

* * *

 

He was waiting for her in the abbey’s courtyard. She almost turned back when she saw him. He was facing away from her at first, a trembling hand running through the mane of his horse. He had not yet seen her—she could still turn back.

 _No_ , she steeled herself. _I am stronger than this. I will be stronger than this—stronger than him if I must be._

He turned when her shoes clicked against the flagstone. Tears welled immediately at his appearance. It had only been a short while since she had last seen him, but he was so very changed: Arthur’s death had wrecked them both beyond repair. Lancelot was still tall and strong—it would take a great deal to strip him of that—but she knew him better than most, and she knew he was being _smothered_ by the guilt and defeat hanging about him. His eyes were red and swollen, and he looked as though he had not slept in days. His shoulders slumped in exhaustion and grief, and the gray streaking his dark curls seemed more defined than ever in the morning mist. She stopped a few feet from him before she lost control and took his trembling hands into her own.

“… You did not say goodbye.” His voice was soft and broken, and his tears had already begun to fall. “I returned to the castle, and I—”

“I did not want you to follow me,” Guinevere interrupted. She hardened her countenance, but her heart split as though pierced by a thousand thorns.

Lancelot was quiet for a long while. He looked down at his hands, swallowing thickly several times before he looked up at Guinevere again. “Why?” A shudder wracked him, and he shook his head. His blue eyes were full of heartbroken confusion. “Why are you doing this? Why don’t you come home with me? We—we can be together now, really and truly _together_.”

How could he be so naïve, so unbelievably foolish? His romantic heart was almost childish at times, now more than ever before.

“No, we _cannot_. We cannot be together, Lancelot. We never could, don’t you see that?” Guinevere blinked away the tears, but a few escaped down her pale cheeks. “We never should have tried… Our love has no place in this world.”

Lancelot shook his head. He stepped towards her, reaching for her hands. “No, don’t say that. We—”

She snatched her hands away. “It is the truth,” she said. “I will not lie to myself about this any longer, and I will not suffer you to do so either in my presence.”

He drew in a shuddering breath, and he looked as though he might collapse. “But… I love you, Guinevere.”

A sob broke from Guinevere’s throat, and she had to clasp her hands tightly to keep from taking him into her arms. “And I love you… But you are poison to me, as I am to you.”

He nodded, clenching his jaw. “You are right.” He smiled the saddest smile she had ever seen. “You are always right.” He took a couple steps towards her, looking to her for silent permission before he came closer. She nodded her consent, mistrusting her voice. “I will leave you and make penance as long as I am permitted by God to live.” He was achingly close now, and he looked down into her eyes with the same gaze that melted and broke her will for the first time so many years ago. “But I will love you longer still.”

She shook her head, lowering her gaze and letting out another sob. She covered her mouth to muffle the sound, but it did little good. Hesitantly, shakily, Lancelot reached out a hand to comfort her. He lightly touched her shoulder, then his other hand cupped her cheek. And they both crumbled into each other and to the ground. Guinevere wept in his familiar arms, folding into them easily. He held onto her tightly, his tears soaking her hair and shoulder. The pain of the parting was splintering what remained of Guinevere’s heart.

“One more kiss,” he whispered into her hair. “I _beg_ you, just one more.”

Guinevere shook her head. “No, that we cannot do, my love.” She tightened her grip around his neck and shoulders, praying that holding tighter would keep her heart from ripping apart. Her prayer was not answered: the pain just grew worse. “That we can never do…”

They sat together, crumbled and breaking upon the courtyard stones, for a long while. The only sound about them was their sobs, but they spoke not another word to one another. When the bells of the abbey rang above them and the sun began to dispel the morning mists, they broke apart. Guinevere forced herself to stand, pulling Lancelot to his feet as well. She did not remember letting go of him. She did not recall when he mounted his horse, and she did not recollect running after him and collapsing at Almesbury’s gate until two of her ladies helped her to her bed. All she knew was that Lancelot was gone from her forever, along with every piece of her shattered, withering heart.

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this for school. WHOOPS, there's my arthurian, medievalist heart.


End file.
